Night Gallery 2

by Rod Serling

  Mr. Goldman shrugged. "I don't much care for it either."

  Dr. Levine Iooked around the barren bedroom. "And this place is like a refrigerator," he said.

  Mr. Goldman smiled. "Come in July. Then it's like a Turkish bath."

  "Mr. Goldman," Dr. Levine said very severely, "I've got to be blunt with you."

  The old man on the bed smiled. He had kindly, Slavic blue eyes and cheeks still desperately clinging to a little touch of rose that showed underneath the beard and through the pallor of a long illness.

  "Be blunt with me," Goldman said, "like your father, God rest his soul—now there was a blunt man. Blunt, Doctor. From Bluntland! If the Devil himself walked up to your father and said, 'Jake—how do I look?' Your father, God rest his soul, would answer, 'Lousy.' " The old man smiled. "Did I ever tell you, Doctor, how your father and I were boys together in the Old Country?"

  Dr. Levine sighed. "Frequently, Mr. Goldman. How you lived in the same village . . . how you came over here on the same boat . . . how your brother Sam . . ."

  Old Mr. Goldman looked galvanized. His eyes widened. "My brother Sam," he shouted. "Now from my brother Sam I just got a letter." He raised himself in the bed, rummaged around the bed table that was full of medicine bottles, found a letter, then continued to rummage for his glasses.

  Dr. Levine found them and handed them to him. He put them on, half-sliding them down his nose, then peered myopically at the letter.

  "He owns a thousand acres in a place called Imperial Valley, California, Doctor. Here—I'll read you what he says." He held the paper close to his face. "Dear brother Abe: Good news. I am gradually selling off much of my land. Very shortly I will close a million-dollar deal, and I will immediately send you the money I owe you." He looked over his glasses at Levine. "A gonnif, this guy, Doctor. A thief. I hate to say this about my own brother—but larceny and my brother Sam go together like borsch and beets." He tapped the letter. "But he knows I'm going through tough times now. And blood is thicker than water. So any day now I'll be getting a check."

  He carefully folded the letter and laid it on the bed table. Then, coughing, he let his head rest back down on the pillow.

  "Mr. Goldman," Dr. Levine said severely, "finances at the moment are only part of the problem. I'm not going to minimize the seriousness of this. You are very close to pneumonia. There are also pulmonary complications because of your former tubercular condition." He picked up his bag from the floor. "I've got to recommend hospitalization. I think it is not only essential at the moment it's urgent."

  Goldman slowly removed his glasses and peered across the room at him. "Hospitalization?" He shook his head. "You should excuse me, Doctor—but from this room I do not walk!"

  Levine, who had already started for the door, returned to the foot of the bed. "From this room, Mr. Goldman, you may not be able to walk. Another few days lying here, you may be taken out of here feet first. And you may not be breathing at the time. You want it blunt, Mr. Goldman? That's blunt!"

  The old man lay there quietly for a moment. "And my grandson?" he asked in a different tone. "Nine years old my Mikey is. His parents—God rest their souls—are both gone. The boy is my responsibility."

  "I told you two weeks ago, Mr. Goldman," Levine said, "that I'd already discussed this with the Bureau of Child Welfare." His tone was gentle. "You're in no condition now to look after the boy. He can be put in a foster home. He'll be fed and clothed and looked after—"

  Goldman interrupted him. "And loved? Will he be loved?" The old man shook his head. "I don't give him much, Doctor. Rummage-sale clothes and this steerage-class apartment—but here he has a grandpa. Here he has someone who cares about him."

  Levine looked down at the wasting old man, and at the same time felt the cold dampness of the room. God only knew how old men survived in such places for as long as they did. Or infants. Or any living thing. This winter it was the influenza. In the summer—heat exhaustion, blood poisoning, and God only knew what. There were epidemics for every season. And there were twenty nonpaying patients for every five minutes of the day. He stood at the foot of a mountain, ice-coated and stretching up through the clouds; and he was supposed to scale this, barefoot.

  He hated the harshness and bitterness of his voice, but harshness and bitterness were becoming as much a part of him as ineffectual pink pills, unpaid bills, and all the other accouterments to being a doctor in a ghetto. "That's all well and good, Mr. Goldman," he snapped, "but the Bureau of Child Welfare, not to mention the Department of Social Services—"

  Goldman held up his hand, his voice gentle and patiently explanatory. "Doctor," he said softly, "a message to the Department of Social Services and the Bureau of Child Welfare and the Commissioner of Public Works and the Mayor—he should only live and be well—from Goldman. Subject: His grandson Mikey. Message as follows: Goldman is not giving up his grandson. You can tell them all that."

  Dr. Levine looked long and thoughtfully at the old man. Incredible—the resilience of the human spirit; the persistent strength of the dying and the doomed. How from somewhere they extracted some life force that breathed and functioned long after the body had given up. He gnawed on his lower lip, and his face was very thoughtful.

  "What about the Angel of Death, Mr. Goldman?" he asked. "What do I tell him?"

  Goldman, who had lifted his head up from the pillow, let it fall back. "The Angel of Death?" he asked softly. His eyes moved around the room. "He's close by, Doctor?"

  "He's outside at the moment, Mr. Goldman."

  Goldman looked very reflective. "That close." Then the eyes took on a hard, brittle, embattled look. "To the Angel of Death, Doctor—this message: Tell him I'll spit in his eye. Mikey is all I have. And I am all he has. And things will turn out all right. My brother Sam will send me the money, I'll be back on my feet in a few days"—he grinned crookedly—"and the Messiah will come down to Mott Street. And He'll turn everything into a garden."

  Ah, yes, Mr. Goldman, Levine thought. The Messiah. The omniscient, sought-after, much-written-about, hopefully anticipated Messiah. Conjured up from the mass despair of ghetto dwellers; sung about, lyricized, and stuck onto every prayer with the glue of hope—and sadly, pathetically absent when He was most needed.

  "Mr. Goldman," Dr. Levine said softly, "I'll keep an eye out for Him." He shook his head, resigned and worried, and moved out of the room. As he walked through the living room, he felt the cold again and looked out the living-room window toward the gray winter late afternoon. He carried his bag over to the door and opened it. A young woman stood there, her fist raised in the act of knocking. She looked apologetic and a little flustered.

  "Excuse me," she said. "Does an Abraham Goldman live here?"

  Levine nodded. "With a vengeance."

  "I'm Miss Moretti," the young woman said. "I'm from the Bureau of Public Assistance." She looked Levine up and down. "Are you a relative?"

  Levine heaved a deep sigh. "I'm Mr. Goldman's physician."

  Miss Morertl looked momentarily surprised, and her voice was just slightly accusative. "His physician?"

  Levine held up his black bag. "What do I look like—a plumber?"

  "Forgive me, Doctor," she said quickly. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. It's just that . . . well . . . you don't often find physicians making house calls to relief cases."

  "Miss Morerti," Levine said, pointing a finger at her, "Mr. Goldman and my father were boys together. And in the interests of your survival, when you talk to Mr. Goldman, don't refer to him as a 'relief case.' He has very precious damned little left—but pride he's got!"

  Miss Moretti nodded. "I understand, Doctor," she said. "And where do I find him?"

  Levine pointed across the room. "In that bedroom. That's where you'll find him. Seventy-seven years old, both lungs tubercular scarred, a pulse that varies from a gallop to a slow crawl. But if you try to take anything away from him—you'd better duck! He'll be out of that bed Indian wrestling with you."

&n
bsp; Miss Moretti moved into the room and surveyed its barren ugliness. "I understand there's a grandson involved," she said.

  Levine nodded. "That's what belongs to him. Nine years old." Again he sighed. "I talked to Child Welfare about him."

  Miss Moretti buttoned the top button of her coat against the cold of the room. "The boy obviously can't stay here," she said, "and I gather the old man's condition is quite serious."

  "Today it's serious. Tomorrow I've got every reason to believe it'll be critical."

  Miss Moretti opened up a manila folder and riffled through some papers. "Have you been paid, Doctor?" she asked. She found the sheet she was looking for and read from it. "They've been getting one hundred and twenty-one dollars a month plus rent. Frankly, that's all that's allowable . . ."

  Levine half-smiled. "He has great expectations. The Messiah and his brother Sam."

  Miss Moretti continued to look down at the paper. "Oh, yes," she said. "His brother Sam. The other case worker mentioned that in her report. A million-dollar lettuce grower in Imperial Valley, California."

  Levine felt almost defensive. "He's got a brother Sam—"

  "In an old men's home," Miss Morertl interrupted, "in Santa Monica, suffering from hardening of the arteries and delusions."

  Cross off one dream, Dr. Levine thought.

  "Broke?" he asked softly.

  "Dead broke."

  Dr. Levine noted that the snow had stopped falling. All that was left was a slate-colored grayness to the departing day. Poverty could not be covered and disguised for very long. Mott Street outside looked like Mott Street.

  "So much for his brother Sam," Dr. Levine said softly. He turned to her, half-smiling. "Which leaves us the Messiah." He moved toward the door. "I'm going to drop by again tomorrow. I'd appreciate it if you didn't make any decisions about the boy yet."

  Miss Moretti looked pained. "We can't let this situation go on indefinitely."

  "Agreed. But the old man is living on borrowed time. Borrowed from where, I don't know. But as of the moment you take that child away"—he shook his head—"that's when we can go out and look for ten mourners." He started to button his worn overcoat. "What's the weather like?"

  "Ice cold," Miss Morertl said, "but I guess the snow is stopping."

  "Just right for the Christmas season. And should I not see you—a Merry Christmas, Miss Moretti."

  Miss Moretti for the first time took stock of Dr. Levine's face. She saw the furrowed lines and the tired eyes; she saw in them the bewilderment and frustration of the healer with much too much to heal. "Happy Hanukkah, Dr. Levine," she said with a little smile.

  Levine went past her and out into the hall. "God bless us . . . every one." He paused for a moment before closing the door. "And God help you, Mr. Goldman."

  Mikey Goldman, age nine, with dark and serious eyes and the old-young look of the ghetto child, carried the tray into his grandfather's bedroom, placed it on Goldman's lap, then sat on the end of the bed, his little legs dangling over the side.

  Goldman peered at him, smiling, over his glasses. "What culinary masterpiece have you whipped up this evening, chef?"

  A touch of smile on the serious little face. "Tomato soup."

  The old man looked down at the tray. "Tomato soup. And what did you have?"

  "Tomato soup."

  Goldman took off his glasses. "Boychik," he said, "for me tomato soup is a delight, since only my gums belong to me. But for you, Mikey—you must eat more than this."

  As always, the little boy's voice was serious. "I had milk, too."

  Goldman removed the paper napkin from the tray and tucked it under his chin. "How was school today, Mikey?"

  "Grandpa, did you know that a guy named Leon tried to find a fountain of youth?"

  "Leon?" Goldman squinted up his eyes then he smiled. "Ponce de León! Of course! A Spaniard. But unfortunately, Mikey, he came up empty-handed." Goldman's smile took on a slightly frayed look. "The unfortunate fact is—there is no fountain of youth. And if there were—I should have long ago taken the subway to reach it."

  The little boy seemed to ponder this. "Grandpa," he asked, "once you're old, you can never be young again—right?"

  Goldman nodded. "As true as the Talmud."

  Mikey looked long and searchingly into the old man's face. "But you aren't old, Grandpa. Not very old."

  Goldman shrugged. "Not very old. Comparatively speaking." He winked. "Compared to the Jerusalem Wailing Wall, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I am what might be called a sprightly youth."

  The little boy looked thoughtfully at the stained yellow-flowered wallpaper behind Goldman's bed, and his mind, in the manner of all little boys, left the launching pad to soar up and ahead. "Do they sell pizza at the Leaning Tower?" he asked suddenly.

  "Mikey, 'Pisa' is a place. 'Pizza' is a food." Then he reached out and took the little boY's hand. "And you, Mikey," he said lovingly, tenderly, "are a prize. You ask so many questions, soon you'll be a very wise man."

  "Like you."

  Goldman pointed to himself. "Like me?" he shook his head. "Unfortunately, Mikey, your grandpa is not such a wise man. If he were a wise man, he would never have lent his brother Sam all that money when we were young. Though," he continued, turning toward the table and pointing to the letter, "it appears the Messiah is already acting."

  Mikey frowned. "Who's the Messiah?"

  "Who's the Messiah?" Goldman responded, waggling a finger in front of him. "The messenger from God, Mikey. At any moment he will arrive, looming big and black against the sky, striking down our enemies . . . and raising us up to health and wealth and heavenly contentment." He burped and smiled wryly. "And he will also improve our digestion. He will supply me with new teeth." He looked around the room. "He will very likely put us into a palace."

  "Grandpa," Mikey said, his voice hushed, "will he bring ice cream?"

  "Tons."

  "Toys?"

  "Carloads. Freight trains full."

  The boy's fists were clenched with excitement. "What else?" he whispered.

  Goldman smiled. "What else do you want?"

  Again Mikey took a long look at the yellow wallpaper, deep in thought. "Will he bring the Giants back to New York?"

  Goldman laughed, leaning back against the pillow. "Not only that, boychik—he'll throw out the first ball!" He took another sip of the soup, then put the spoon back into the bowl. "I think that is sufficient for me, Mikey."

  Mikey pointed to the tray. "You didn't eat no bread and butter."

  The old man looked apologetic. "Later on, maybe. Before I go to sleep. I'll ask you to fix a little tea. And then I'll have some bread and butter."

  The boy moved down the length of the bed to stand closer to the old man. Goldman reached out and touched his face. "Mikey," he said softly, "you are my solace. My prize. You are the most important thing on God's earth to me. Did you know that?"

  Mikey leaned over and kissed Goldman's cheek. "Me, too," he said. He reached across to pick up the tray, then started toward the door. Behind him he heard Goldman cough heavily. When he turned, he saw the quickly disappearing look of pain on his grandfather's face. He stood there for a moment, irresolutely. "You okay, Grandpa?" he asked in a worried tone. "You're coughin' much worse."

  Goldman closed his eyes. "With the advent of the Messiah, I will cough much better." Then he smiled. "Close the door, Mikey. I think I'll sleep a little now." He heard the door open, then opened his eyes. "Do me something."

  "What, Grandpa?" Mikey asked.

  "Leave something behind for me."

  "What, Grandpa?"

  "A smile."

  The little boy smiled a quick, fleeting smile. He read pain in the old man's eyes; and the breathing from the bed was shallow and forced. Then he turned abruptly and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him; and as he carried the tray back into the kitchen, he tried to shake off an ice-cold apprehension that had been reappearing lately in nightmares and in frightening daydreams. Deat
h was a remote, vague abstraction that the nine-year-old mind equated only with the act of disappearance. And when the word "death" came slyly and persistently to the door of the boy's mind, he wished it away—hurriedly and compulsively. There would be no death in that tenement. Mikey believed this. He believed it because he had only one tie, one link, one item of flesh to bind him to his little world. That was his grandfather. And death was simply unthinkable.

  As he washed out the dish and spoon, he let his mind wander to the Messiah and what the Messiah would look like. Probably James Arness, probably with a gun and holster slung low over the right hip, with a very large horse. Because, after all, his grandpa had said that he would loom big and black against the sky and strike down their enemies. One small questioning doubt intruded. Big Jim Arness was not black. But what difference? Freight trains full of ice cream . . . toys . . . and some kind of proclamation with a ribbon on it announcing that the Giants were coming back to New York.

  Inside the darkened bedroom, Goldman closed his eyes tightly against the pain of his coughing, the wracking, bone-shaking dismantlement of his body that left him weak and perspiring, his fingers clawing through the darkness as if searching for pockets of air to feed back to his scarred and withered lungs.

  And then he heard the sound. Rustling wind across the room. His eyes opened, and there was fear in them. "Who is it?" he whispered. He sat up in bed. "Who's in here?"

  The wind sounded like an off-key note from the broken string of a ghostly violin, and then it died away. But even then, in the darkness, Goldman saw the shadow. It seemed to hover like a blacker black superimposed over the night.

  "I know who it is," Goldman said. "Believe me, I know who it is." He pointed to the shadow with an outstretched, shaking finger. "I have a message for you . . . you snuffer out of candles . . . you wholesaler in the corpse business . . . I have a message for you!" He lowered himself back against the pillow, but his hand remained outstretched. "I know who you are. And to your unseen face I tell you—I am not ready for the Angel of Death. You I'm not ready for! Take that back to the cemetery With you. Goldman is not ready. The pulse still beats. The flesh is still warm. The eyes are still seeing. And the heart—you mumzer from a mausoleum—the heart still loves."